


Ipomoea Purpurea, or, A Pact With the Improbable

by Cat_Latin



Series: Chosen Family [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Mary, F/M, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Magical Realism, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Latin/pseuds/Cat_Latin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't the maddest thing they'd done.</p><p>Sherlock was intensely grateful that neither of them were gentle.  There was something proprietary, and a touch rude, in the way that they handled him, battle-seasoned doctor and nurse, tending critical wounded in the field.  It made sounds come from the base of his throat, that he couldn't control.  It made him push back into their touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ipomoea Purpurea, or, A Pact With the Improbable

 

 

 

Someone sent a stack of photographs to Baker Street, of all the usual ensemble: Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and now both Mary and Molly, surveillance photos of all of them, simply going about their business. It was not the work of Mycroft's people. 

There was also a copy of the ultrasound photo of the Watson's child. Mary went contemplative, and Sherlock actually heard John's teeth grind, as he bit down his rage.

Mycroft waved his wand, and arranged target practice and total immunity, which led to Sherlock, lounged against a wall in an unmarked basement facility, enjoying the scent of gun residue in the air. The Watsons stood, nearly shoulder to shoulder, shredding paper targets. John fired with his calm attention to detail, and Mary, with her customary surgical precision.

Sherlock moved to Mary's left shoulder as she was reloading. “Your compromised center of gravity should be affecting your success rate, but it's not,” he said. “The coin was impressive enough, but you don't actually blink when you fire at a horizontal target. I read somewhere that only 5 percent of the population trained in firearms will not blink or flinch when they pull the trigger. John blinks, as do I,” Sherlock mused, “but my skills are simply utilitarian.”

Mary flashed Sherlock a feral smile, and to John she asked, “You suppose he has a kink for sharpshooters?” John grinned, and stole a glance at Sherlock, looked away, licked his lips. “I love you, and you're terrifying,” he said to the floor, and Mary laughed, and said, “Was that for Sherlock or I, dear?”

Mary was a liar by necessity. She'd lived in London long enough to become bi-dialectical, without consciously having to work at it, but her accent sometimes slipped a bit. It happened when it was only the three of them, and she was at her most merciless, which was also when she was at her most truthful. Sherlock secretly adored this about her, reveled in her sharp edges, and as a result of this, and the trust she was rebuilding with John, she showed those edges more and more.

Sometimes Mary would open her mouth, and Sherlock would be momentarily transported to the Jersey Shore, but her p's said New Brunswick, yes, Rutgers University, for at least as long as it would take to get a Master's, until someone spotted her hidden potential and recruited her. Her accent was also affected by upstate New York, probably a parent grew up in Rochester County. He'd written a blog about the dialects of the mid to northeastern United States, but it hadn't gotten many hits.

He didn't believe Mary was aware of her slip-ups, but John noticed, whenever it happened. Sherlock observed John's expressive face, watched him file away the information, perhaps a touch curious, but not upset. No need to act on it, then.

Then Mrs. Hudson arrived to their underground target practice, and John began taking her through the basics of operating a taser.

Unexpected. Startling. Sherlock had to leave the room for a moment.

 

 

John never relinquished his key to the Baker Street flat. It must have been a moment's work to make a copy for Mary. Suddenly, they both had regular business in the city. Mary had appointments, and John was back helping Dr. Sawyer at the surgery, once or twice a week. The two of them began to use Sherlock's home as a London headquarters, to spare themselves a bit of the longer commute, out to the suburbs. It became normal to find Mary, John, or both of them lounging in the flat, as if they lived there. Sherlock pretended irritation, to keep up appearances. Mrs. Hudson was overjoyed.

On Tuesday, Sherlock came home from Scotland Yard, after two days away from the flat, pursuing a case. Testing soft drink bottles at Barts had subsequently led to tracking down a meth lab in Stepney. He needed a bath, and was exhausted to his bones.

The leather sofa called, with its Sherlock-shaped imprint...only Mary was there, and had commandeered it for a nap. She didn't budge as he stepped over the coffee table, and seated himself on its edge, to observe her.

She'd been to pre-natal yoga, still in her exercise clothes, and was waiting for John to get off-shift. She was ostentatiously pregnant. Twenty-five weeks was apparently the requisite time for the small creature growing inside her, to shape her outside form into that of a sated boa constrictor. She smelled of clean sweat, and cream.

The flat was warm, and her t-shirt was stretched thin, failing to accommodate all of her abdomen. The lower third stuck out, pale and round, and her distended navel poked through the cotton fabric like a large, misplaced nipple.

When she woke to Sherlock's mad hovering, Mary just blinked slowly at him a moment, and snagged his hand, dragging him, with no struggle at all, off the coffee table and onto the floor. She placed his palm firmly on her middle.

“It's a dance party in there,” she said, and to Sherlock's astonishment, it was.

He fell into a doze, half-sprawled against her side, his knees awkwardly up near his chin, and his arse on the gritty, sitting-room carpet. The dance party continued under their clasped hands, tiny limbs beating themselves warmly against Sherlock's palm, violins and dubstep crossing wires in Sherlock's dream, until he surfaced for a moment.

Background noises happening in the kitchen added up to John, making tea and unpacking takeout. Sherlock hadn't heard him come in. Then John was suddenly at Sherlock's side, leaning across the coffee table, breath tickling Sherlock's ear. “Why are you wearing those horrible clothes again? Where have you been?”

“Disguise for a case, that's all,” Sherlock murmured, without opening his eyes. “Please don't roll up your sleeves, and force me to piss into a cup.”

“That's a picture,” Mary said. Sherlock could hear her smirk.

“Dirty girl,” John returned affectionately. Sherlock could sense the two of them engaging in unspoken communication, but he was too warm and comfortable at the moment to care.

Sherlock's account of his whereabouts must have satisfied John, who only said slowly and clearly near Sherlock's ear: “There is a blender in your kitchen now, that is not to be used for eyeballs or entrails, understand? Also,” John cleared his throat. “I really enjoy watching you touch my wife.”

Sherlock suddenly had the impression of a clock that had been ticking backwards for quite some time, about to set off its alarms. He heard himself reply, “Excellent. Because I rather enjoy touching her.”

To demonstrate, he moved his hand under Mary's, and stroked leisurely circles on her stomach. Her shirt had long since ridden up around her breasts. Mary's skin felt warm and smooth, and she sighed and undulated, just a little, into the touch. “This is far from the maddest thing we've done,” she laughed, already a little out of breath.

Sherlock opened his eyes, just as John stood to move around the coffee table, to the sofa. “Lift up, love,” he said. Mary raised her head off the cushion, and John slid into the space under her, gently arranging her head to something comfortable. They shared a smile, from their upside-down vantage points, and John bent to kiss her. He placed his hand over Mary's, over Sherlock's, and asked his wife, “all right?” Her breath hitched a little, when she said yes.

Their three hands moved slowly, soothingly, over Mary's belly and breasts, until her knees fell apart, then both Mary and John's hands were inviting Sherlock's hand down, past the curve of her belly, to slide under her waistband, and over her mons. Sherlock inhaled sharply; he wasn't expecting such heat. He splayed his hand, squeezed, and pressed the heel of his hand against her, and Mary said, “Yes,” again, lower, more urgently. John's other hand came down and cupped Sherlock's jaw, and he leaned into the touch.

Mary required no finesse, moving fluidly under Sherlock's hand to get what she needed, while he touched and explored. She worked her fingers into Sherlock's hair, and John's thumb brushed across Sherlock's lips. Mary writhed, and he looked up to see John bent over her again, kissing her thoroughly, his other hand on her throat. She made a broken sound into John's mouth, and pulsed around Sherlock's fingers, everything suddenly hotter, and his hand covered in her slickness. Mary made a harsh sound, and stilled his hand. “Sensitive, now.”

Sherlock gently withdrew his fingers, and John intercepted his hand, and sucked on his fingers, moaning, held Sherlock's hand in both of his and licked his palm clean. John released his hand, and yanked him by the collar, into a frantic kiss. The scent and flavor of both of them exploded across Sherlock's senses. He made a sharp, needy sound, and clawed at John, dragging him closer.

“That's right,” Mary said, hushed and reverent. “The two of you need to sort yourselves out, make things Right With The Universe, whatever you need to do. We can't afford for there to be any tension among us, and _god_ , also? It's...a bit sexy.”

“Just a bit?” John asked, his nose in Sherlock's hair.

“Fine, it's dead sexy, and I'm the luckiest knocked-up girl in London, however, Sherlock here is knackered and needs a bath, and you invited Mrs. Hudson up for dinner.”

They'd ended up flat on the floor at Mary's feet, John on top of Sherlock.

“Sorry I didn't remind you earlier, love, but I was a bit distracted, getting mine,” she smirked, unrepentant.

John rested his head on Sherlock's sternum for a moment, then grinned up at him. Sherlock touched the smile lines at the corners of his eyes, because he could.

“I only have myself to blame this time.” John pulled himself off Sherlock, looking regretful, and went away to blend Mary some sort of horrid, healthy, caffeine substitute. It smelled far too green. Mary went to clear the table, and Sherlock peeled himself off the floor, and went for a bath.

 

 

Sherlock dozed in the tub, the reek of two days undercover, and the more pleasant scents of both Mary and John soaking slowly from his skin. Mary tapped on the door. “Still alive?”

From the tone of her voice, she needed to pee. “I don't mind, if you don't,” he mumbled. She crept in and did her business, then sat on the edge of the tub and lathered Sherlock's hair. He accepted her ministrations, and even let her convince him to sit up a while longer to join her, John, and Mrs. Hudson at the table.

Sherlock poked at his noodles distractedly, plotting in his mind the mathematics of Mary's curves, how they would change during the gestation process. Patterns from the end of the first trimester to the end of the third made for beautiful, rippling lines on the graph in his mind. He couldn't deny he was fascinated by her pregnancy, and shared with them all that he researched.

John made a speech over his dumplings. Sherlock took the opportunity to skewer one out from under John's hovering chopsticks.

“Mary and I have been talking, and we've agreed to let you have a go on oversharing painfully on the topic of Mary's pregnancy--”

Sherlock must have looked too delighted, as John felt the need to cap it with, “ _Provided_ we are not in the company of others.”

“This has to do with my advice on massaging Mary's perineum at least once a day, isn't it? The books say it's one of the most effective ways to prevent vaginal tearing.”

“It was effective alright,” Mary murmured around her straw, eyes sparkling with mischief. John blushed, and looked reminiscent for a moment, then recovered himself and sighed. “It's more about you sharing things like that in mixed company, Sherlock, and a parent losing the opporunity to _choose_ the time they'd wish to tell their ten-year-old son what a perineum was.”

“Oh, typical! Must there be an age requirement on answering people's questions, once they're smart enough to ask them? We're bringing a new life into a culture that gets only mildly uneasy if I show little Archie a photo of a mangled corpse with maggots in its eyes, but heaven help me if I call a 'honeymoon' a _Sex Holiday_ in his presence! The world flies into a panic.” Sherlock regarded his stolen dumpling morosely.

John looked amused. “We?”

Sherlock rewound his last few sentences, and froze. _Oh, terror, I remember you._

He looked away, but John moved quick, to stay in Sherlock's eyeline, and grasped his sleeve, like he thought Sherlock might bolt from the table. “I like it. For the record. _We._ ” Mary hummed assent. “You're right, you know. _We_ are bringing a child into this madness.” John spread his arms to include Baker Street, his wife, Mrs. Hudson as she arrived late to join them at the table, and all of London, as if it were all both the “we,” and the “madness.” Sherlock couldn't argue.

“Hmm.” Sherlock regarded the dumpling, impaled on the end of his chopstick.

“Thank goodness we're all bollocks at communicating,” John said, into the lengthy silence.

“Finally, a level playing field,” Mary said.

“Speak for yourselves,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Life's too short to tiptoe around what needs to be said. For example, just now, I arrived late to dinner, to give you three the time to pull yourselves together after your orgy on the sitting-room floor. I'm not deaf, dears.”

John nearly choked on his dumplings, and Mary cackled, and pounded his back. Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea, looking fey.

“All that release of oxytocin is good for the child,” Sherlock said dismissevly, and waved his stolen dumpling between John and Mary. “Speak for yourselves, indeed. I had to crawl from my death bed, to set up an elaborate mind-fuck in Leinster Gardens, just to get the two of _you_ to speak to each other!” Sherlock shrugged at their horrified faces. “Mary shot me, I drugged both of you on separate occasions,” Sherlock recited, “and even so, we are _still_ among the few in this world, who should be allowed to breed, and care for developing minds. What was your point, John?” God, he was tired. He stuffed the dumpling in his mouth.

John just frowned in the direction of the mysterious surveillance photos, tacked across the wall over the sofa. Mrs. Hudson tutted, and Sherlock decided to say something ridiculous. Sometimes they actually liked it when he did that, which was good, because he'd discovered recently that he couldn't stop.

He remembered reading to Mary's belly, when she and John were estranged, how A Midsummer Night's Dream seemed the best thing to soothe her. “I would bargain with the fairies to keep us all safe from harm,” he announced, his mouth full of dumpling. “The child in particular.”

Sherlock had named the child first, had her name locked in the mahogany box with brass inlay, that lived in his mind. It was still a secret.

“Go with care,” John said automatically, and tapped the wooden table top with his knuckles.

Sherlock was delighted. “Superstitious, are we? Must be something in that Highland blood.”

“Shut it.”

“Clap your hands if you believe,” Mary crowed.

“Wendy and her Lost Boys,” Mrs. Hudson offered, looking at the three of them fondly. “Sherlock, dear, you look about to fall over. When did you last sleep?”

There were fresh morning glories climbing the wall behind John and Mary's chairs, more precisely, _i_ _pom_ _oea purpurea._ The triangular seeds were sometimes used as a psychedelic. They were impossible, and he was too tired to care. People hallucinated after being awake for seventy-two hours, and unfortunately, he was people, when it came to things like this. The blossoms were purple and lush, surrounded by green, heart-shaped leaves, and he enjoyed looking at them, as Mary Morstan-Watson smiled at him, and John smiled at both of them.

He was rescued from nodding off into his plate of noodles. Warm breath on his shoulder, John's hair tickling the side of his face, John's fingers pressed against his pulse. Sherlock opened his mouth to complain, _not your patient, thank you,_ but then capable hands slid under his elbows, and stayed on him, even though Sherlock hoisted himself up, and walked unsteadily towards the bedroom on his own steam. John didn't cross the threshold, though, just quietly closed the door between Sherlock and the rest of the flat.

Sherlock's bedroom was cold, but he was exhausted, and soon drifted off.

 

 

“Go on, love.”

It was Mary, whispering in the doorway.

Sherlock stirred. His eyes stuck together a bit as he cracked them open. It was dark out, but he'd fallen asleep with the bedside lamp on.

“Go on,” Mary repeated. She was speaking to John.

Sherlock pulled aside the bedclothes, the mattress dipped, and John's body settled over his.

Sherlock was intensely grateful that neither of them were gentle. There was something proprietary, and a touch rude, in the way that they handled him, battle-seasoned doctor and nurse, tending critical wounded in the field. It made sounds come from the base of his throat, that he couldn't control. It made him push back into their touch.

Quiet, heartfelt utterings from John, that sounded nearly punched out of him, restless hands everywhere, John's hot mouth on his chest, on his stomach, over the thin fabric covering his aching cock, fingers pushing the fabric down and away, John's legs shoving Sherlock's knees apart--

“ _Oh, god_ ,” Mary practically sang, from somewhere above Sherlock. He could feel the erratic movements of her arm. She was touching herself, _oh_ , he liked knowing that. He turned his head and nosed the fabric of her shirt away, mashed his face into her skin.

Mary came with a growl, shuddering deeply, and Sherlock _wanted_ , and Mary understood, and-- _yes_ , her fingers in his mouth, slick and warm, the center of her body in his nostrils, on his tongue. Then John hummed around Sherlock's cock, pressing his fingers inside just _so_ , and Sherlock roared, and shattered apart, caught between John's mouth and his hand.

Mary licked the sweat from Sherlock's temple and said, “He's not finished with you.” John's fingers slipped out of him, and came back with more lube.

He let John fuck him into the mattress, his teeth grazing Sherlock's throat. Mary pulled Sherlock's head back by the hair. “I'd still kill anyone who threatened him, even you,” she confessed, near his ear. She dragged her nails across his nipples, and he arched, and ground out, “I wouldn't have it any other way,” and John groaned helplessly and came, hard, into Sherlock's body.  


End file.
